Chapter Text
The Great Hall was awash in a roar of noise, all of the students happily discussing their winter breaks over dinner. Tom speared at his food with his fork, uncaring of what the other Slytherins made of his distracted mood as he resolutely fixed his attention away from the professor’s table.
Henry? Potter didn’t look like a Henry. Horace? No, Potter certainly didn’t share a name with Slughorn. Hector. Perhaps it was Hector. A Trojan prince—slayer of the Greek hero Achilles. That seemed suitable. Hector Potter had a certain roguish tone to it, one fitting the man.
Tom spared a quick look up at the professor’s table, and immediately looked back down when he saw Potter engaged in conversation with Dumbledore of all people. Appalling. Surely it was a charade. No proper Dark magician would associate with such a man, unless it served his needs in some way.
Spitting out some excuse about needing to study, Tom stormed out of the Great Hall and retreated to the Chamber. He considered his book for a while, hefting its weight in his hands. It was deeply and thoroughly cursed, but judging by a few dents in the pages, it seemed there were slips of paper dispersed throughout. Notes from Potter, most likely.
The curses had to be unraveled individually, and while he had made some progress over the remainder of his winter break, there was still more to do. He wrapped the book in a careful ward and let a curse-breaking enchantment get to work. Unable to do anything else with the text until that was complete, he decided to let out some pent-up aggression. He hurled spell after spell at various targets, occasionally glancing at the slumbering Basilisk curled up in the back of the main chamber. One of these days, he would do it. He would wake it, and set it loose, targeting the mudbloods infesting the castle halls.
Unless. Was there any possibility that the Potter bloodline had muddied itself with muggle heritage in the future? Would that put Hector—Potter—would that put Potter in danger? Maybe that was why he asked Tom to let it sleep. Well, letting the Basilisk take care of that matter would certainly solve Tom’s greatest issue. Maybe that was what he needed to do. It certainly wasn’t the first time he considered killing the man.
Alternatively, Potter would make the perfect sacrifice for his horcrux. Two birds with one stone. Or, perhaps, Tom would leave him alive. He could preserve him for years, keeping him under close watch, and utterly disregard that advice to only make one horcrux. Let his soul be torn to shreds, if only to see Potter’s dismay.
Not that he wasn’t grateful, after all of the assistance Potter had offered. It was just… He hated feeling so indebted to the man, especially considering how little he knew about him.
Tom flung a bone-dissolving curse at a transfigured humanoid target, and laughed as it slumped to the ground. At least here, deep beneath the castle, he had power. He had control. He laughed and laughed as he summoned forth a wave of Fiendfyre, letting his rage fuel the dizzyingly powerful spell, reigning it in as it accelerated into a towering inferno. He tore apart the far end of the Chamber with his wand, and once his fury was sated, he put it back together again.
Potter wasn’t waiting for him in the hallway. He wasn’t in the Astronomy Tower, either. But Tom did find him in his classroom the following evening.
“I need to talk to you,” Tom said, the moment he spotted Potter behind his desk.
Tom could feel the magic shift in the room, sealing them inside a privacy spell. He narrowed his eyes at Potter, not missing the use of such powerful non-verbal and wandless magic.
“Hello, Tom. I take it you received my gift?” Potter asked with such a maddeningly conversational tone, as if he wasn’t aware of what he had done. He had changed out of the plain black robes he wore while teaching, now dressed in a pair of trousers and a fetching button-up with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. He was disturbingly handsome, and appeared all too innocent.
“I did,” Tom replied. He stalked across the room, circling around the desk to stand beside Potter, glaring down at him. “And I’d like to know what exactly you think you’re playing at. Where did you find that book?”
“I have my ways,” Potter said, smiling. He leaned back in his chair, with all the attitude of a particularly pleased cat moments after snapping down a canary. “Why? Don’t you like it?”
Tom’s hands acted of their own accord. They shot out, twisting into fabric to heave Potter up to his feet, Tom’s body carrying on to push him against the wall. Stacked necklaces clinked together beneath a soft exhale, Potter’s breath hot against his face. Tom could taste his magic, and it was purely, undeniably Dark beneath so many careful enchantments. It felt so right, so sweet, to touch the man. Something in Tom’s heart pulled open, singing and joyful. Feasting on the way the smaller man squirmed under him, clearly feeling something too, he breathed, “I adore it.”
Potter made a surprised noise, pushing Tom away. He was remarkably strong, enough to make Tom stumble back. Frowning, Potter looked up at him, glasses reflecting the light of a nearby lamp in the otherwise dim room. “Oh, Mr. Riddle. I hope I hadn’t done anything to give you the impression that I’m interested in a child.”
The words hurt worse than Tom let on. He took another step back. “I’m not a child. You know as well as I that I just turned seventeen. In the eye of the law, I’m just as much an adult as you.”
“But you’re my student,” Potter replied patiently, as if Tom didn’t already know.
“And you’re my soulmate.” Agonizing mortification rushed through Tom at the admittance.
“I am.” Potter stepped away from the wall, smoothing his rumpled shirt before returning to his desk. “And I’ll still be your soulmate when you graduate. I’m sure you have enough patience to wait until then to finish this conversation. I’d recommend you focus on that book in the meantime. I gave it to you in hopes of keeping your brilliant mind occupied, after all. It’s a far better use of your time than whatever you’ve been getting up to with your little friends.”
Tom ignored the compliment. “What game are you playing at, stalking me throughout my childhood? Lingering so close, when you knew fully well what we are? It’s entirely improper. Disgusting.”
Something like irritation flashed across Potter’s face. “I needed to keep an eye on you. I know all of your mistakes, Tom, and I know how to guide you away from them. You should be thanking me for investing so deeply into your future.”
Tom realized he was trembling. He folded his arms over his chest, fighting to meet Potter’s eyes. “But why?”
“Why?” Potter laughed. “I promise, it’s for purely selfish reasons. I want to keep my soulmate alive and well, so I can actually be with you this time around. Now, please. Can we resume this conversation at a later date? How does the day after graduation sound?”
“Fine,” Tom snapped. Impatient as he was, it did seem the proper thing to do.
“Great. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a nearly endless stack of essays to grade. A bit of advice—never become a professor. It’s maddeningly boring.”
Tom fled the classroom without another word.
So many plans fell to the wayside as Tom focused on not pining over Hector—Potter. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to not think of him by that likely first name. What work he had put into winning the respect of his classmates now seemed to be a waste of time, considering the partnership Potter could offer. Tom had no use for frivolous, spoiled teenagers when a Dark Lord was waiting for him to graduate.
And he had his book. Le Dragon Noire contained so much useful information. There was little need for political manipulation with such treasured secrets at his fingertips. He hardly even considered waking the Basilisk anymore, as there was far too much danger that something could go wrong, exposing himself. Would Potter be interested in him if Tom failed, if he was expelled or imprisoned? Would he break Tom out of Azkaban? He had explicitly requested that Tom leave the Basilisk alone, and clearly knew what would happen if he did it anyway. The Basilisk had waited, and it could continue to do so. Tom had loftier goals in mind.
The subject of who would make for a suitable horcrux occupied his thoughts. Not Potter. Definitely not Potter. As upsetting as it was to know that there was somebody in the world that could hold such sway over Tom, he knew Potter would be far more useful alive. That impulse for murder had been just that—a childish, emotionally-driven impulse. Dumbledore, on the other hand, would make an excellent option. If Tom was only going to make one, then he needed to make it count.
Despite all of the other discarded plans, Potter didn’t keep him from one of his goals. The summer after his sixth year, Tom finally sought out his family. He left his uncle Morfin Gaunt alone, wondering if that drunken wretch would spawn his seed off on somebody, allowing another potential Heir of Slytherin to come forth in the future. But there was little use in letting the Riddles survive.
A lovely little curse, perfect for revenge, one note tucked into Le Dragon Noire had read. Tom cast it for the first time on his grandfather.
To put use to the useless, said another one. It cut down his grandmother, and Tom felt a burst of strength rush into him as she gasped her last breath.
As a last resort, or when you're really angry, punctuated with a drawing of a smiley face, beside a curse terrible enough to turn even Tom’s stomach. He cast it on his father and apparated away, landing on a hill overlooking Riddle Manor to watch as his father’s soul collapsed, taking down the building with him.
That land would be cursed, from then until the end of time. A tiny black speck that used to be Tom Riddle Senior’s soul would remain, consuming anything that came too close. A miniature black hole, an infinite prison, perfectly suitable for the man that allowed Tom to languish in an orphanage for eleven years. A landmark for the undying gratitude Tom held for Hector.
With a wave of careful magic, Tom cleansed all trace of himself from Little Hangleton. Let the Ministry come after him; thanks to the secrets contained within Le Dragon Noire, there was no possibility that anyone could prove Tom had even visited the town. He was a beloved student. The future Head Boy. It was likely that the Ministry would pin the blame on his uncle, who was a far more likely suspect.
Nobody came after him. Yes, there were inquiries from the Ministry regarding Tom’s location that night, but nobody bothered to follow up, other than to extend their condolences. Tom had gotten away with it. Deciding to treat himself to a little celebration, Tom got well and truly drunk alone in his summer hotel room, and wrote a letter of appreciation to Potter. Unfortunately, he was a bit too drunk to recall what the letter had said, but he was seized with mortification at the one-word response that following afternoon:
Hector?
Tom could have died from embarrassment. But somehow, he found the will to show up for his final year at Hogwarts. A few more months. He only needed to wait a few more months, and then he would have his answers.
Oh, but how time dragged on. Hogwarts had little to offer Tom now. He breezed through his NEWT examinations with minimal effort, and spent less time in the library and more time reviewing the contents of Le Dragon Noire in the Chamber of Secrets.
Potter continued to evade him, and that was fine. Tom was content to sit back and observe his professor, his impending life partner. He felt a vicious sense of possessiveness over the man and hated the way students and professors alike held him in such high regard. That would end soon enough, though. Tom knew with full certainty that once he graduated, Potter would no longer teach at Hogwarts. Curse the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, for all Tom cared—Potter belonged to him.
Finally, after an eternity of waiting, Tom graduated from Hogwarts. He stepped up onto that stage where he once sat under the Sorting Hat so many years ago, and received commendations from the Headmaster. His NEWT results would arrive in the post later, but those hardly mattered. While his classmates fretted over what they would do outside the guidance of Hogwarts, what sort of careers their test results could promise them, Tom had greater ideals in mind.
The grant he received as a first year had built up a modest savings, enough to allow him to travel the world, to explore new places and cultures, and learn as much as he pleased without fear of financial repercussions. Irritatingly enough, the benefactor of that grant finally contacted him through the mail, insisting upon a meeting the day after Tom graduated. Apparently they had an exciting opportunity available for Tom, if only he would meet with them for a few short hours. Tom very much doubted that he would have any interest in their offer, but he supposed they deserved some of his time, even if it did cut into his meeting with his former professor.
He wrote Potter another letter, this time in the full sobriety of day, requesting that they meet for a late dinner. Potter replied with a brief message saying that was perfectly fine, and that he would track Tom down. Tom wasn’t entirely certain of what to make of that, but he assumed Potter had his ways, as he did with everything else.
Tom apparated to the restaurant in Diagon Alley where he was scheduled to meet with his benefactor. It was early afternoon, and his first day of true freedom outside the constraints of Hogwarts greeted him with bright sunlight and a clear, blue sky.
The restaurant was a small, posh establishment. Everything was all polished wood and smooth riverstone, accented with blacks and creams. It had a fashionably rustic atmosphere that made Tom confident that his benefactor had both money and taste. The host led him to a spacious private room, and Tom observed a small natural stream cutting through the ground beside his table as he waited impatiently.
The door opened, indicating the arrival of his benefactor. Tom sipped his water, and when he set down his glass, Potter was sitting at the other side of the table.
“Potter? I thought we weren’t meeting until later,” he said, suddenly feeling rather stupid.
Potter only smiled, and gestured for their server to approach. Tom sat back in his chair as Potter asked a few brief questions about the menu, chewing over the situation in his mind. Of course Potter was his benefactor—who else could it have been? Who else had been so completely invested in Tom’s well being for so many years?
“And do you know what you’d like, sir?” the server asked.
“I’m certain an establishment such as this is capable of preparing an acceptable steak,” he replied dismissively. The server nodded and vanished into the main dining area.
“No need to be so testy with the waitstaff, Tom,” Potter said lightly. A copper teapot appeared on the table and he poured them both a cup. “This is one of my favorite restaurants. I’m glad to see it’s just as fine now as it is sixty years in the future.”
“What are you doing here, Potter?”
“Please, my name’s Harry,” he replied. “As charming as Hector might be.”
“Harry?” Tom scoffed. “Maybe I will continue calling you Potter.”
“Hey now. I know you’re surprised, but you don’t have to be so rude. I’m very fond of my name.” Harry took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes, sinking into his chair as if deeply relaxed. “And I’m sure you’ve figured out by now why I’m here.”
“You’re the one that helped me leave that orphanage.”
“I am.” Harry’s eyes snapped open, and he grinned over his steaming cup. “I didn’t feel comfortable outright adopting you, as much as I liked the thought of rescuing a fellow orphan. But I figured you were self sufficient enough to handle your summers on your own. Much better than enduring that awful war in the middle of the worst part of London.”
Tom stared at him. He stared and stared, not sure of how to reply. His first impulse was to be angry at Harry for keeping this a secret for so long. His second impulse was to lunge across the table, to drag Harry close and finally lay claim to what was his.
“A thank you might be in order, you know,” Harry said, filling the silence.
Tom fought back a scowl. “You have a lot of explaining to do. What exactly do you want from me?”
“An answer to my question, all those years ago. Who do you want to use for your horcrux?”
“We can’t talk about that here,” Tom said, his jaw dropping at Harry’s audacity.
Harry waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, it’s fine, I warded the room and the server isn’t coming back. Our food will pop onto the table when it’s ready. You can trust me, Tom. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
“Too good, clearly,” Tom replied. He took a sip of his tea before continuing, “I’ve decided I want to use Dumbledore.”
“I knew you would,” Harry said, nodding.
“That doesn’t bother you at all? I’ve seen the two of you, in the Great Hall. You seemed friendly enough.”
Harry snorted. It was a strikingly undignified noise in such a fine establishment, which seemed very properly like him. “Hardly. You’re not the only one that likes to trick people, Tom. Albus and I have… a history.” He laughed at the sour expression crossing Tom’s face. “Oh no, nothing like that. Excluding some brief, failed attempts at relationships as a kid, I’ve always been very single. Albus was a mentor of sorts growing up.”
Harry launched into a detailed retelling of his past. He described his upbringing with a hideous muggle family, his arrival to the magical world and his time at Hogwarts, with Tom’s future self and his various atrocities interwoven throughout. He explained the way he had been forced into the role of a martyr, a child soldier, watching one loved one after another die, until it was his turn to sacrifice his own life. Even after their meals arrived, magically appearing on their table, he continued talking, describing the prophecy that tied them together. Tom was struck speechless, unable to do anything but cut off tiny pieces of his steak and chew slowly as Harry told him everything.
Finally, he finished his story, wrapping it up shortly after the aftermath of the war Voldemort had raged across Britain. “And then, I finally found out one last, essential secret Albus had been keeping from me.”
“The soulbond?” Tom asked, surprised to find his voice steady beneath so much shock.
“Yeah. Albus knew that you made an undying connection between us when you planted that piece of your soul inside me, and that it was destined to happen. Beyond that prophecy, into something else. A true, deep magic. I’m sure you’ve read all about this, but our souls and their bonds stay with us throughout all instances of time and space, no matter where we end up. We could end up in some totally different universe, and we’d still be connected.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Tom scoffed, not knowing what else to say. The lightning-shaped mark on his chest throbbed, and he drained the last of his drink, feeling perfectly overwhelmed.
Harry shrugged. “I think it’s a fun little thought experiment. But of course, you were already dead by the time I found any of that out.”
“But my soul—my horcrux. It isn’t inside of you anymore. Voldemort killed it when he tried to kill you,” Tom said. The name felt odd and heavy on his tongue. He felt absolutely no connection to it. Yes, he also sought to avoid death, but the name was… wrong. He wasn't that man.
“Right. But the bond is still a real, living thing. It’s infinitely permanent. And it turns out, without you, I… Well, at first I just thought it would take some time to accustom myself to living in a time of peace, after so many years of war. But… I was so restless. I knew something needed to be done. I did a lot of thinking about what your childhood was like, how so many different things went so wrong for you. Everyone thought you were rotten from birth, but I knew better. You see, the Dursleys thought I was the same way. Rotten and useless. But I had friends who gave me the chance to see myself in a better light. I knew I could give you the same opportunity, and hopefully help you.”
Harry tapped his ringed fingers against the table, shooting Tom a charming smile as he continued, “So I thought about it, and I came up with a plan. It involved a fair amount of lying to close friends, and a lot of digging through questionable old books, but I figured out how to do it thanks to Le Dragon Noire. I traveled back in time, and that ring you pulled off my finger when you were just a kid kept me here.”
“And you really believe you’ve made that much of a difference? I’m far from perfect, Harry. I’ve killed people.”
“You’re nothing like Voldemort. You may share the same soul—broken or intact, it makes no difference, but you’re worlds apart. As far as I’m concerned, your memories and experiences form your personality far more than any inherent condition. And I like your personality the way it is now, thank Merlin. That’s part of the reason why I left you alone most of the time. I wanted you to become your own person. But I understand why you needed to kill the Riddles. I mean, I…”
Harry’s voice dropped to a soft tone, looking down at the table, and Tom thought for a brief moment that he had never seen him so abashed in all the years they knew each other. “I killed my family too. The Dursleys. They deserved it. I used their lives to fuel the spells necessary to make it back here, the first time. It took a lot, to travel so far. I had to dive fully into the Dark Arts to find you, and honestly, I fell in love with the subject in the process. Maybe it’s the soulbond, but it came so naturally to me. I still have my morals. I have scruples. But, well, it’s just so intoxicating, isn’t it?”
Their eyes met, and Tom let out a short laugh. “Yes, it certainly is.”
“I had no idea, growing up, that sometimes the Dark Arts are downright beautiful. It’s not all pain and murder and evil. It’s simply another form of magic. A potent, emotionally-fueled work of art.” Harry’s typical smile slowly leaked across his face, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I hope I did an alright job conveying that at Hogwarts, as best as I could without getting sacked.”
Tom shrugged. “You could have put more emphasis on the point, but I imagine it was a difficult task while staying within the parameters set forth by the Board of Governors. You certainly lingered on the subject of curses long enough.”
“Yeah, well, they’re just so fascinating.” Harry slid his foot forward and nudged it against Tom’s, who tried to not jump out of his seat at the sudden contact. “Anyway. It was easy enough to go through the whole process again when you took off my ring. A little too easy, really. I had plenty of enemies left over after the war.”
“Do you regret any of it?” Tom had to ask.
“No.” Harry dragged his leg against Tom’s, eyes flashing as if he knew exactly how the contact made Tom’s heart pound against his chest. “I sacrificed so much, helping the world. I gave up my whole childhood. I decided that I’m allowed to take what I want, sometimes. And what I want is to have a chance at getting to know you better. I deserve to be with my soulmate, no matter the cost.”
“It still seems like a large price to pay, sacrificing everything just to come back for me. Aren’t you sick of being owned by some supposed destiny?” Tom could scarcely think of anything he’d hate more than feeling an obligation to something outside of his control. Although he supposed this very situation could qualify as such, and at that moment, he had few complaints.
“Destiny? Yeah, I’m a little sick of being its punching bag.” Harry slid his hand across the table, taking hold of Tom’s. A little electric jolt passed through them as skin met skin, and Harry squeezed. “But you’re worth it.”
Tom stared down at their joined hands and wondered if he was angry with Harry for all of the manipulation. He had stolen greatness from Tom. A grand regime. One that ended far too soon, but it was still something glorious and terrible. But that irritation and loss was nothing compared to his gratitude. Harry had saved him. He kept Tom out of that orphanage, ensuring his safety. He gave him so much information, and he really was the Dark magician Tom had pictured him to be. They could accomplish anything they set their minds to, now that they were together.
“So, what’s next?” Tom asked.
“I thought I could ask you that,” Harry replied. “You’re a full-fledged, graduated magician, and from what I’m hearing, one with perfect NEWT scores. What do you want to do?”
Tom thought about his impending horcrux, about Le Dragon Noire, about a dozen other plans he had been turning through his mind over the past few years. “I think I’d like to kiss you.”
Harry smiled. “That sounds like the perfect place to start.”